


Even Robots Need Blankets

by TheJesterOfHell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sam Is Alive!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:47:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6055513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheJesterOfHell/pseuds/TheJesterOfHell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Human Crowley Au! Also Bobby is still alive, and his house never burned down… Yeeeaaah. Sorry if this idea has been used before. I may have accidentally picked it up in all my time of reading Crobby fics. Yikes. By the way, I 100% stole the title from a Mayday Parade song, just letting you know!</p><p>Basically Crowley is cured and becomes human, while Sam remains alive. They bring him back to Bobby's house but Crowley is having some troubles of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Robots Need Blankets

Crowley felt terrible. Actually, he felt worse the terrible; he felt like hell, and he had personally been there himself. Was this what being human was like all the time? He didn’t know. And to add on to the pile of crap that was Crowley’s current situation, he found himself slipping in and out of consciousness. Something about the Winchesters agreeing not to kill him just yet, then … the angels falling? And lastly he was barely able to hold on when they were driving. It was raining, maybe cause by the angels falling out of the friggin sky? Crowley couldn’t tell. The two men in the front seats casually talked about where they were gonna stow him.

The Impala turned into a spot close to Bobby Singer’s house; a place that was rather familiar the the now ex-demon. Crowley lay on his side across the back seat, jerking awake when the Impala came to a complete stop. He attempted sitting up but his arms failed to support his efforts and his chest ached. Sam and Dean walked around to the left side of the car, opening the door and sighing when they saw Crowley struggling. Nearly dragging him, they lifted Crowley up by his arms and carried him to the door. Crowley couldn’t speak, normally he would make some snide comment and just shake off the pain, but he was stopped by some unknown force. Were these feelings?

Crowley had trouble discerning exactly what he was feeling. Demons didn’t quite feel things the way humans did, some things not even being felt at all. If emotions were nothing but a hindrance to one’s physical abilities then he wanted nothing to do with the bloody things at all. Crowley shivered; he was actually cold. He could feel the rain soaking him to his core as it picked up, heavy splashes plastering his hair to the top of his head. Crowley hadn’t felt cold in a long time, and to be perfectly honest he didn’t want to deal with cold.

Sam and Dean opened the front door to Bobby’s home and lead Crowley indoors. Sitting him on the couch, the Winchesters left Crowley to himself while they went and explained things to Bobby. Crowley could only hear a murmur of what they were talking about, something about Crowley staying here to be safe so they could get information from him if they needed to later. But for now they were going to leave the ex-demon in the care of one Bobby Singer. They said their goodbyes and the Winchesters were on their way back out into the rain, while Crowley sat, un-moving, staring at the wall in front of him.

“You just gonna sit there? Or would you rather we clean you up?” The old hunter asked him.

Crowley didn’t respond, finding himself unable to muster up the strength to do so. Bobby sighed.

“Well, it’s probably best that we get you out of those clothes and into something clean, and not soaking wet.” Bobby decided, taking the Scotsman’s hand and leading him up to his bathroom, not receiving any resistance or protest as he did. Crowley merely shuffled behind the hunter as he was lead up the stairs to a bathroom that was halfway down a hallway on the right side.

Crowley was stopped in front of the the sink, a mirror residing just a few inches above it. Once he got a good look at his mug he snapped out of his funk, but only slightly. He touched the blood on his lip, trying to wipe it off and onto his sleeve. 

“Don’t use yer hand yah idjit,” Bobby grumbled, grabbing a washcloth. He wetted the miniature towel with warm water and dabbed it all over Crowley’s face, cleaning some of the dirt off. Crowley still looked beat up and his suit looked like it had personally been run over, backed up over, and run over again. However, Crowley’s appearance wasn’t what he was focused on.

Idjit. A word adopted as the catch-phrase for the one and only Bobby Singer, where he got it from? Who cares? Crowley didn’t. Normally the word was used in a _Don’t-Do-That-You-Fool-AKA-You-Idjit_ type of way. But Crowley couldn’t help but focus on the tenderness of the hunter’s voice. Was Bobby Crowley’s number one fan? Crowley didn’t think so, but something about how Bobby was caring for him, cleaning him up, housing him, made Crowley feel things he didn’t understand.

This moment of emotional ecstasy was extinguished when Crowley was suddenly consumed by guilt of how he’s treated the gruff, Hat wearing man, that was currently trying to clean him up. Bobby lay his hand on Crowley’s shoulder to get his attention without alarming him.

“I have some clothes you can use, don’t worry I haven’t worn them before. I know they’re not exactly yer style, or a suit for that matter, but they’ll work fer now.” Bobby said as he put the folded up outfit on the edge of the sink. He let Crowley know that he wasn’t going to guide him through the process of changing his outfit and closed the door behind him on his way out.

Crowley exhaled a slow and tired sigh as he slowly began to take of his suit piece by piece. He bulled on the soft shirt and plaid pajama pants that, despite not being worn by Bobby, still seemed to have seen better days. Crowley opened up the door and shuffled out of the small bathroom. Speaking for the first time in awhile, his voice was hoarse.

“Robert?” Was all he felt he had strength to say. The rain pittered down the roof of the Hunter’s house filling the seconds of silencer between Crowley’s call and Bobby’s response.

“Down the hall a little ways, fix’n you a place to stay,” Bobby called out, from down the hall as he had promised. Crowley wondered if the hunter had a guest room ready for whenever a wayward ex-demon was to stay at his home. Crowley sauntered down the hall, reaching the bedroom that had many characteristics of the hunter that was preparing it for him. Photos of the Winchesters and guns, lots of guns actually. Bobby moved the guns into boxed, laid fresh blankets and sheets on the bed, and made everything livable for someone that wasn’t quite as used to his decorative tastes as he was.

“Am I sleeping here?” Crowley asked after watching the hunter redecorate.

“As a matter of fact you are, and I will be sleeping on the couch.” Bobby replied simply, flashing the smallest of smiles at Crowley.

“This is your room? And you’re letting me, the ex-King of Hell, your arch enemy, sleep in it?” Crowley asked, baffled.

“The way I see it, you were a demon before and now you’re not. That’s gotta mean something right? After all you haven’t exactly been your usual chatty, schemey, self. I figure you’re still trying to figure out just what the hell human emotions are, which by the way, have their perks but can still suck. Am I getting any of this right?” 

Crowley nodded slowly, he was awestruck by the treatment he was receiving, and from Bobby Singer no less! He had done absolutely awful things to this man, yet he was willing to do this? Crowley was glad Bobby said goodnight quickly and left him to himself. Crowley turned of the lights and found his way to the bed. Sitting up in it, tear started welling up in his eyes, and streaming down his cheeks. He didn’t understand the hunter’s kindness one bit.

Bobby lay on his couch, quite familiar with the feel of the furniture as it cradled his body. He couldn’t quite understand why he himself was being so nice to Crowley. The guy had done horrible things in the past, worse things then Bobby probably even knew about. But this feeling that Bobby had, it was ineffable. He wanted to scoop the man up in his arms and hold him tight, which is something Bobby would not say he does often, or at all for that matter.

Crowley listened to the rain, he didn’t listen to it that often when he was demon. He was usually to busy bargaining for souls or trying to kill someone that he never got to truly appreciate how it sounded on the roof of the house. But again, Crowley’s emotions took a roller-coaster ride once a flash of lightning made him sit up, the sound of thunder cracking through the air. His eyes were wide, and once another flash passed, he wasn’t his Bobby Singer’s bedroom anymore.

He could feel it, Hell, all around him. People moaned for the families, and screamed as blades bit into them. Crowley found himself unable to make sound, chains dug into his shoulders and through his body. _The Rack_ his mind panicked, he hadn’t been on the rack in many of years. The demon with yellow eyes stood over him, a smile larger than it should possibly be. The yellowed eyed man took his sickle and dug into the flesh of Crowley’s right thigh, and suddenly he was able to scream again, the sound ripping his vocal chords as it tore through the air of the Singer household.

Bobby leaped out of his bed the instant he heard the scream, bolting to his bedroom where Crowley was staying. Crowley was curled up into a ball on the bed, blankets tossed all around, the man was shivering and his eyes were wide. Bobby climbed into the bed and sat Crowley up.

“Crowley please! It’s Bobby, please snap out of it!” Bobby pleaded with the ex-demon. Crowley clutched the man’s forearms.

“Bobby? It’s you?” Crowley choked, tears pooling in his reddened eyes as they streamed down his face. He let himself fall into the hunter’s embrace, shaking. Bobby ran his finger’s through Crowley’s hair rhythmically. 

Eventually laying Crowley down, Bobby began to stand up, but he was stopped by a hand grabbing his wrist.

“Robert please, I know this sounds weird but please, could you stay? If only for a little longer?” Crowley pleaded, grasping for something to feel that wasn’t pain or guilt.

“It’d be my pleasure” Bobby said warmly, pulling up the blankets and wrapping Crowley in his arms. Crowley lay with his head on the hunter’s chest, feeling himself drift into something he wasn’t used to. He expected his slumber to be riddled with nightmares, but something about being with Bobby made sleep feel safe. Bobby traced circles on the Scotsman’s back until he felt himself unable to stay awake as well. He realized he didn’t want to go back to his couch, so instead he stayed here; in bed with the old King of Hell wrapped in his arms.

And there wasn’t another place either of them would rather be.


End file.
